Pli
by Lerry Hazel
Summary: Pre-, while- and post-Hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

_**Title: **__"Pli"_

_**NB**__**: **__It precedes "Paroli" chronologically, but was written later, and I'm not really sure which one should be read first. _

_Both titles refer to an ancient card game, just because I didn't want anything manifest and sentimental. All you have to know "Pli" and "Paroli" are types of stakes ;-). _

_**Warning**__: It is not precisely an AU, but I don't have unconditional faith in the Canon. If you consider it a sacrilege, you probably shouldn't read. _

_**Disclaimer**__: Sherlock Holmes belongs to all good people; the rest belongs to Sir Arthur. _

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"**PLI"**

He awakes with a start and reaches blindly for his cigarette-case. His fingers meet an edge of a wooden lid instead, tracing the familiar shape of a syringe in its velvet nest.

He tears a small round window open, frowning back at the accusingly glittering blue outside, as cold salty breeze sings insistently to his blurred mind that in this cocaine-induced haze he somehow lost six months of his life.

When his dearest long-suffering friend stormed out of his life to run into that "extraordinary girl" – whatever "extraordinary" might be left for a man familiar with women of three continents, but apparently extraordinary enough to propose to a week later.

When his bank account was drained to the extent where he had to take up political intrigues to avoid chasing lost pets and unfaithful spouses.

When one ridiculous mistake turned a curious and challenging case abroad into months away from the continent, "not a word from you at home if you value your life".

Vanished. Forgotten. Alone.

In a sudden rash of anger he snaps the fine Moroccan box closed and desperately throws the syringe into the endless waves swashing playfully outside the illuminator.

Then he falls back on the bunk, and pulls the blanket over his head.

Suez is still days away.


	2. Chapter 2

Sigerson may be tall, but he stoops. Sigerson's hair is yellowish brown: fortunately, the tropic sun took care of it with little additional help. Sigerson's eyes are hardly noticeable behind his strong glasses. Sigerson's handshake is weak. He doesn't do boxing or fencing and he can't shoot. Nor does he play the violin or mess with dangerous chemicals. His studies lie in some exceptionally peaceful field, like ethnography or architecture.

Sigerson wanders aimlessly through cold wet London night, because he is reluctant to return to the place he dares not call home:

"_Remind me again, why I have to put up with you?" he asked the Disturbing Presence before leaving, with the fake Scandinavian accent that had almost become his own._

"_Because as long as the Ministry pays the rent, you have no saying in the matter", his bulky nemesis (1) shot back, throwing a handful of sickening herbs into the fire in his umpteenth vain attempt to overpower the omnipresent smell of strong tobacco._

Every day for three years of blatant deception and sublime threats wrapped in сhocking humidity under hellish sun, Sigerson straggled to get his life back. Now he knows he has no life left, long dead to the world along with his fictional self, the only man who ever cared to stand by his side married happily, well, as happily as a former soldier who hadn't left his thirst for adventure at the battlefield could be, settled down and domesticated.

Siegerson hunches further and draws his rusty-colored coat tighter to his frail frame… and stops dead as a familiar name winks at him with its shining letters from under a near-by abat-jour.

He shoves the unnecessary glasses into a pocket and rubs his eyes before reading carefully again and again the faultlessly polished doorplate adorning the most modestly-looking door:

JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.

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_**(1) It may just as well be Mycroft, though actually the character comes from a story I **__**never managed to finish, which was about Holmes having to adjust to another flatmate after Watson left. **_


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes is 6' 4" of evident dexterity and hidden strength. He can easily climb up a railing to have a look in a high window. Sherlock Holmes' keen steel-grey eyes gleam with excitement as they promptly catalogue the traces of familiar presence in the tiny rooms inside: good old General Gordon staring proudly from the wall, old frayed oriental robe thrown carelessly on an armchair, old leather-clad journal forgotten on the mantelpiece; distinctly Spartan settings, no consulting room and so far no sign of Mrs. Watson.

Sherlock Holmes buries his nose in his scarf and withdraws into the shadow, alerted by the familiar tap-tap-tap of a heavy cane against the pavement, his implacable logic flying through his long mental list of 'all-too-late's and 'should-have-not's.

"_If you think your cases are more interesting than mine, go on."_

_"I feared as much. I really cannot congratulate you."_

"_I have my plans laid, don't bother."_

"_You may proceed with you romantic nonsense."_

"_I glanced over it. Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it."_

_"For me there still remains the cocaine bottle."_

_"If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence."_

"_You think? Pray, never try that again!"_

He grabs the edge of the railing hastily, felling almost physically Sigerson come back, who probably is acrophobic as well as lonely and miserable fleeing from one distant country to another, trying to leave no traces of his existence.

But he still can't bring himself away from the silhouette now moving with routine precision behind the windowpane.

Placing the Gladstone bag near the desk – out of the way but always at hand.

Loosening but not taking off the cravat, undoing the upper button of the waistcoat but not changing into the chamber gown – always ready for a sudden visitor in need of help.

Reaching for a bottle of brandy; breathing out a cloud of ship's smoke Mary used to (used to?) find far too strong; collapsing into the armchair in post-all-nighter exhaustion – too agitated to go to sleep, to tired for anything else.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't need to see the face to recognise the wistful expression desperately trying to turn into angry: the one reserved for patient that can't be helped; old comrades drinking themselves to madness; Holmes neglecting eating and sleeping; Holmes letting a cruel remark slip casually; Holmes refusing to tell where he is going and for how long. The one he wore scanning the rushing crowd at Victoria Central anyway, unable as usual to recognise Holmes in his disguise but ready, without realising it himself, to follow – no matter where and for how long – at the first summons.

And Sherlock Holmes' heart tells him, that despite all 'should-have's and 'whatever-for's John Watson never stopped being his friend.

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Sherlock Holmes jumps over the railing with feline grace and knocks resolutely on the door.

As he announces his need to see the doctor to a disheveled landlady, he is surprised to hear Sigerson's accent gone for good.

=the end=


End file.
